Down Don't Bother Me (9780062362209) (10 page)

I screwed up my courage a little and decided to have a go at the kitchen. If this was like most neglected houses, the kitchen would be in worse shape than the living areas, and the bathrooms would be worse than that. I resolved to stay away from the bathrooms. Beckett could be lying helpless in the tub, and I wouldn't go in after him alone. My insurance wasn't that good.

But Guy Beckett wasn't in the kitchen. Or in the refrigerator. There was nothing in the fridge at all, not even food. I kept searching and found what must have been Beckett's guest room. On the floor was a mattress that looked like a damp sponge, no doubt used for all kinds of illicit acts. But the shelves were overflowing with books—and not just any books, but volumes on the history of photography, collections of work by Robert Capa and Henri Cartier-Bresson, and an esoteric-looking survey of something called steganography. The only thing of even slight interest was a signed photograph of the former St. Louis Cardinals quarterback Jim Hart. At the bottom of the action shot was a graphic box with some of Hart's career stats: pass attempts, completions, touchdowns, like that. The photo was inscribed to Beckett personally; Hart had been athletics director at Southern Illinois University for a while, so maybe he and Beckett had met there. I took apart the framed picture of Hart, wondering if Beckett had stashed anything behind it, but all I found was disappointment. Maybe Wince was right about life not being like the movies. I put the picture and frame back and went back into the living room, and it was then that I heard the bedroom closet slide open.

I'd forgotten to look inside it, I guess. And maybe that was for the best, if someone was squirreled away in there,
waiting. I could feel my heart hammering. I nearly peeled myself like a banana and went screaming out of the house, but somehow I kept it together and came up with a plan. I slid along the wall until I made the front door, opened it, breathed once, and closed it again loudly, as if I'd just left. Then I slipped off my shoes and made my way quietly back to a spot at the edge of the hallway, where I could wait unseen. It wasn't much of a plan, maybe, but it was what I had. Whoever it was worked quickly. The closet door must have come off its runner because it shut noisily and then banged itself against its frame; then I heard footsteps across the floor and a long moment of silence. When the footsteps came up the hall and walked past me, I cleared my throat, and whoever it was turned around, and I once again found myself looking at Round-Face.

I don't know which of us was more surprised. Me, probably. My nerves had basically had it. He wasn't wearing the ridiculous deputy's costume this time. Or the wide-panel shades. Halloween was over, I guess. Instead, he was wearing a checked sports jacket—glen plaid, I think it was—and dark slacks with a sharp crease. Everything fit just fine. He looked at me. I looked at him. He had the photograph of Jim Hart in his hand. He licked his lips.

He said, “Slim?”

I nodded. I said, “Yup. Slim.”

He said, “Well, this is unfortunate,” and his hand went quickly to the back pocket of his slacks.

I agreed that it was. I raised Betsy and shot him square in the chest.

T
he beanbag inside the sawed-off twelve gauge moved at a rate of roughly three hundred feet per second, so it was like Round-Face got hit in the sternum by a very small high-speed train. He grunted and left his feet. He pitched over backward and banged his head hard on the coffee table, which split in half with a sickening, mildewy crack. Then he lay there without moving.

I waited a moment for the ringing in my ears to subside, then checked Round-Face's vitals. He was breathing, and his heartbeat seemed strong and steady. When he came to, he'd feel like he'd gone under the wheels of a convoy of diesel trucks. But he'd be okay. The thing he'd been reaching for in his pocket was a spring-loaded sap. I couldn't believe it. He was going to sap me, like in an old detective book. I looked for a wallet but found only pocket lint and a folding knife. The lack of ID wasn't much of a surprise, but after my carelessness with the closet I wanted to be thorough. I went into the kitchen and looked around until I found a bit of rope under the sink, and I used the rope to tie him up. He didn't so much as fart the whole time. I'd like to have talked to him, asked him what it was all about, but the guy was really out. I tossed the pocketknife into a corner across the room, then used the landline to call the cops and report an intruder. I gave the address and hung up as the operator was asking my name. They could do with him what they wanted, assuming he ever woke up from his
nap. On the way out the door, I stopped and picked up the picture of Jim Hart.

A
what?” Temple.

“You heard me.”

“A round-faced man?”

“Yup. Mean little bastard, too. He and I have run into one another before. Technically, more than once. And technically, he ran into Betsy. Well, technically, Betsy ran into . . .”

She stopped me. “This is getting complicated,” she said. “Tell me, he wouldn't be a certain someone responsible for your cuts and bruises you had the other day, would he?”

“He might be,” I admitted. “And I'd like nothing more than to learn his story, but I think finding Guy is more important. For all of us.”

“Agreed,” she said. “But how?”

“Working on it.”

“And you say he was stealing a photograph?”

“That's right,” I said. “Anyway, that's what he was doing when I met him. I don't know what else he might have been after. Any ideas?”

“I honestly don't know. A friend of Guy's?”

“Friend?”

“One of Galligan's men, then.”

“Assuming he really is involved.”

“I told you . . .”

“I know,” I said. “One of the richest men in the downstate is risking dying in a prison hospital to make a few bucks in the local meth trade. I got to be honest, this is making less and less sense to me.”

“All I can tell you is what I know,” she said. The line was quiet for a moment while she thought. “Is it worth anything?”

“The photo? I can't imagine.”

“Anyway, bring it to me right away,” she said. “As soon as you can. Maybe something will occur to me.”

“Meantime, watch yourself.”

“Believe me, I never stop.”

W
ell, if Guy Beckett wasn't at home—any of his homes—maybe he was hiding out with friends. I drove into the little town of Herrin and booked us a new room at the Park Avenue Motel. It was nicer than the Pin Oak—anything was nicer than the Pin Oak—and I was promised that no spiders or other pests lived on the residence. I checked in and went up to the room and put our stuff away. I put the photo of Jim Hart on the bedside table. I didn't know why I was carrying it around, except that it was my first official clue, and I was proud of it. I put my clothes and socks and stuff in one dresser, Anci's in the other. There weren't any bugs or rodent nests in either drawer, and that picked me up a little. I began to feel confident about things again, so confident that I decided I needed taken down a peg or two. I phoned Susan.

“I thought you'd have given up by now,” she said.

“A desire to keep breathing has convinced me to press on with this mess,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Believe me, that's impossible,” she said. “What is it this time?”

“Beckett's women.”

“You looking for a date?”

“More like information. I should have asked you the other day, but I left my private eye manual at home. Anyway, I thought you might be able to point me in the right direction.”

“Then you're sniffing up the wrong tree,” she said.

“I'm sniffing, but I think the tree is just fine,” I said.

“That doesn't really make any sense.”

We could worry about my private eye patter another time. I said, “I'm guessing that you kept pretty close tabs on Beckett. I think you like to keep on top of things, and one way to do that would be to know what Beckett was doing when he was doing it and who he was doing it with.”

“That's a lot of knowing.”

“Tell me I'm wrong, though. Go ahead, I dare you.”

I could hear her grit her teeth. She said, “You ever think about doing this kind of thing professionally?”

“Not on your life.”

“Mary-Kay Connor and Carla Shepherd,” she said after a moment. “Guy had an ongoing thing with both of them.”

“Had one going or has one?”

“Don't know, really. Given recent events, I've lost track. I'll tell you this, though, Guy Beckett would date a warm hole in a motel room pillow, but he wouldn't date it for long, so I guess they might be history by now.”

“Any chance Temple knows about them?”

“If she does, she doesn't know about them from me.”

“Saving them for later?”

She sighed. “Two things I've learned in life: always having an escape route, and always keep a silver bullet or two lying around.”

“You're an interesting person.”

“Buddy, it's a curse.”

I scratched down the names and other info. I thanked her for the help, and she told me where to put my gratitude and hung up on me. Our relationship was as healthy as ever.

Before long, I was on my way to the tiny village of Johnston City. There used to be coal mines and cash in Johnston City, but when the mines went west, toward so-called cleaner coal and a union-free horizon, the cash packed up and followed. There'd been other stuff, too, nice stuff. A movie theater and hotels and fancy nightclubs. There'd been a park and a band shell and rows of fancy houses. The American dream, all that. Bit by bit, though, it'd all gone away. Up and down the country—whatever direction you're facing—the story's the same. And there's always some guy on the TV or in Washington to explain why those jobs aren't ever coming back or some such, as though the idea of paying folks a decent wage to make things were some kind of impossible fantasy, like turning the earth inside out. Meanwhile, these little towns watch themselves dwindle away to a few empty streets and a lot of confused faces. These days, fewer than four thousand folks call Johnston City home. The old movie palace is a whiskey den, the band shell collapsed twenty years ago, and the hottest businesses in town are the churches and the jails.

Mary-Kay Connor's house was a small cottage—modest but neatly kept—but her street had gone outlaw. The house next door was basically a ruin. Its windows had all been busted and its front door was missing. Maybe they'd hocked it. Some skeletal teens lingered on the front porch, sipping bottles of beer and seemingly not bothered by the odor of ammonia so heavy in the air. Meth house, I guess it was.
I went up to the door and knocked, and after a moment a young woman answered.

“Mary Connor?”

“Mary-Kay, please,” she replied. “You Slim?”

I'm Slim. I followed her inside. The place was as neatly kept as your grandmama's Hummel collection, and with all the native domestic trappings, too: a big, ratty armchair from the Ford administration, some right-wing millionaire blowhard blathering away about “regular Americans” on the tube, and a pair of lanky tomcats sleeping near a gun case in the corner. A little boy, seven or eight maybe, was playing with some kid stuff on the floor by the TV. I looked at him a moment and thought I saw something familiar.

“Thank you for calling,” she said, her eyes following mine. “The boy is mine. The cats, too. The guns belonged to my pop.”

“FOP?” I asked, noticing the plaques on the wall.

“Was. Thirty years in the uniform. He was killed last year in a liquor store holdup. Wasn't even on duty. Kid shot him three times in the chest through a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. He was the first cop to get killed in JC since 1965. Some days I'm almost glad he didn't live to see what's happened to this street. I guess you noticed the place next door.”

“I noticed,” I said. “No luck getting them run off?”

“You know how it is. Cops come by every couple of months and clear them out. Pretty soon they're back. Like shower mold. I've got to where I don't let Eric here play outside so much anymore. We'd like to move someplace where the air won't kill you, but this place is paid for.”

She led me to the kitchen. It was nicer than Mays's. You
could have raised Hampshire hogs in a corner of it for a year, and it still would have been nicer than Mays's. It was bright and warm, and there was a big window overlooking a fenced yard with a tire swing hanging from a silver maple. Someone had set up a hay bale to take shots at with a bow and arrow. Mary-Kay put on coffee.

She said, “I got to tell you, I wasn't sure at first I wanted to talk to you, seeing as how you're working for Beckett's wife.”

“I understand,” I said. “But the truth is, if I'm working for anyone, I'm working for myself, though her father was the one who got the ball rolling downhill.”

“I heard about what happened,” she said. “I won't lie to you and say that I was tore up, exactly. That old man rode Guy pretty hard. Twenty-two years of treating him like a rented mule, making him feel worthless, unworthy of the princess. Made Guy just miserable, and I hated him for it. Still, I don't like to hear anyone come to violence like that.”

“Me, neither,” I said. “So why did you agree to see me?”

“Didn't know that I would, really. But I want Guy found and brought home, and I'm a big enough girl to not care who does it or why. Besides, you had a nice phone voice, and I figured I should at least get a look at you. And now that I see you, I see that you've got an honest face. You're kinda cute, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Except maybe them black eyes. You in some kind of accident?”

“Some kind. Do you mind telling me when was the last time you saw Beckett?”

“About a week ago. It was Eric's birthday. Guy took him to one of those pizza places with the singing animals.”

“You met Guy through some kind of work?”

She nodded. “Through the land reclamation project, yeah.”

“I didn't know he worked with them.”

“Only from time to time,” she said. “When Dwayne or the newspaper didn't have an assignment for him, or when he needed a little extra scratch. We were looking at a violator near Boskydell, a Big Eagle mine that was eating houses and road for miles around, and we brought on Guy to take pictures of it.”

I didn't know the case, but I'd been around plenty like it. Mine subsidence, they call it. You're going about your business, easy as you please, then wake up one day to find your house sinking into the earth. It was such a common peril in southern Illinois that people bought insurance against it, like other folks insured against rising waters in a floodplain.

I said, “Let me ask you, what's your impression of this Beckett character? Everyone seems to have a different opinion of the man.” It didn't seem charitable to add that everyone seemed to have a different bad opinion.

“Well, I don't know. I sometimes have different opinions of him, too. Let's just say I've had some long nights.”

I took a chance. I said, “Love does funny things to people.”

She looked at me. Her eyes were like stabs. “It sure does.”

“You ever meet this Dwayne Mays?”

“Couple times. Didn't care for him much, I'll be honest.” She looked up at me suddenly and made a gesture and frowned a little. “I keep speaking ill of the dead.”

“It's okay.”

“He was always dragging Guy into one kind of crusade
or another. A bit of a do-gooder, too, and not ashamed to let you know it. I'll be honest, I prefer my homilies in church. Anyway, you know the kind.”

“I think I do.”

“And this latest business . . .”

“The meth story?”

“That. I warned Guy that getting wrapped up in that would lead to nothing but misery, but he wouldn't listen.”

“You don't happen to know of anyone making threats at him, do you?”

“Not directly, no. I think he tried to keep me out of it. He seemed worried and anxious, though, and that was before he took to carrying a gun around in his car.”

“Well, that could be perceived as a sign of something.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That's the way I took it, too. This wasn't a peashooter, either. You ever seen one of these Taurus Raging Judge Magnum things?”

“Can't say as I have.”

“I know it sounds like a gas station prophylactic, but let me tell you, it's enough gun to kill the Lincoln on Mount Rushmore. I don't like to think what would have happened if Guy ever fired it.”

“When did he start carrying around the cannon?”

“Couple few days after he got into it with someone outside the house here. Car just pulled up out of nowhere, and Guy was out the door like a bat out of hell, and he and another guy were screaming at each other out there on the street. I'll tell you, I was plenty worried about it, but Guy told me it was all just a misunderstanding.”